Death and Transfiguration

Chapter 11

"Bergmann and I were friends once," Sylvestre explained. "It was a long time ago, but when we were young, we were thick as thieves. We wrote each other letters, we went to salons and pubs together, we gave each other advice, we attended each other's premieres. Whenever he bothered to come to Paris, we would spend our days together. He was like the brother I never had."

"What changed?" I asked him.

"Three years ago, Bergmann visited Paris. I think it was for a guest lecture at the Paris Conservatory, but I'm not entirely sure and frankly, it doesn't matter all that much. In any case, he was staying at my house, and every morning, I would take my bicycle to the conservatory for work.

"One day, after my last composition lesson was over, I emerged from the building, only to find that my bicycle was missing. I looked around, wondering where it had gone, and all of a sudden, I saw Bergmann, riding away on my bicycle.

"That was the last straw. I had given him nothing but friendship and hospitality, and in return, he sent me poorly-spelled letters and strange, experimental music. And now, he had the nerve to steal my bicycle? I was done with him. We never spoke again after that day."

I almost laughed, unable to believe that Sylvestre would end his friendship with Bergmann over something so petty. However, I saw the look on his face, and I knew that he was dead serious. If it was all true, if Sylvestre had truly had a grand falling-out with Bergmann three years ago over a bicycle, it was hardly a reason for murder. Perhaps Sylvestre hadn't killed Bergmann after all, but if he hadn't, then who had?

"I suppose you didn't really need to know all of that, but the detectives from the Paris police seem to have become quite suspicious of me lately. I didn't kill him of course - I would never even think of doing so monstrous, and even now, I care for him far too much - but I thought you should know the truth." I nodded, and Sylvestre said, "Now where were we, Miss Brackenborough? We were working on orchestration last lesson, weren't we?"

"Yes, that's correct," I said.

"Why don't you show me what you've been working on?" Sylvestre said. "You were writing a string quartet, weren't you?"

"Actually, I decided to try working on a cello sonata instead," I said as I opened up my book of compositions.

"Interesting," Sylvestre said as he looked through the sheet music. "Have you finished it yet?"

"No, I'm not even done with the first movement."

Sylvestre continued to study the score, and after a while, he said, "There's too much going on here. Why not cut it off after the third page?"

"I suppose I could do that," I said.

I was just about to erase the entire fourth page when Sylvestre said, "No, don't do that, Miss Brackenborough."

"Why not?" I asked.

"There's a nice melody there. You could use it elsewhere in the piece."

"Thanks, Mr. Sylvestre," I said.

"You're welcome," Sylvestre said. "This really is a lovely piece you're writing. I look forward to seeing it when it's done."

It was strange. I didn't think the cello sonata was one of my better compositions, and yet, Sylvestre was being so nice about it. I couldn't help but wonder if there was some reason why he was being so uncharacteristically kind to me.

"However, if you were trying to write an augmented seventh chord, then that should be a G-sharp," Sylvestre said.

I sighed and corrected the note, my eyes fixated on the wall behind Sylvestre. There was a tasteful portrait, rows of family photos, a hunting rifle, a grandfather clock. I thought of Bergmann walking through these hallways, sleeping in the guest room upstairs, writing music in this very room. He must have been in my place dozens of times, and I had never even realized.

"Are you staying for dinner, Miss Brackenborough?" Sylvestre asked.

"Actually, I'm meeting Léa at Café de la Paix."

"Léa Valencourt?"

I nodded. "She's a friend of mine."

"I would be careful around her," Sylvestre said. "She is perhaps the least respectable woman I have ever met."

"You know, that's almost exactly what Mr. Moreau said to me."

"He's right," Sylvestre said. "Moreau may not be a great musician, but he has your best interests at heart."

Part of me wanted to object. Moreau was an excellent violinist: I heard him every time I entered Madame Leclerc's boarding house, and even though we had hit a rough patch in our friendship, his violin playing was as delightful as ever. However, I decided to argue an entirely different point.

"He's wrong about Léa though," I said. "She does the right thing, and she sticks up for people when no one else will."

"Yes, by starting duels at the slightest provocation."

"How do you even know her?"

"She was friends with my wife."

"So you must have known her well."

"I saw her around quite a bit. We've drifted apart since Claire passed away," Sylvestre said. He paused and then added, "We've gotten a little off-track, Miss Brackenborough. Why don't we get back to the lesson?"

He looked over the cello sonata once again before flipping to a sketch I had done for the abandoned string quartet. "The harmonies here seem a little off," Sylvestre said.

"I wasn't planning to use them," I said. "I stopped working on the string quartet, remember?"

"Yes, but the tune is lovely," Sylvestre said. "You have a real knack for melody."

"Thank you, Mr. Sylvestre," I said. Sylvestre was certainly acting strange today, but in a way, I didn't mind. This was what I had dreamed of when I first arrived in Paris: a famous composer telling me that my music was worth something.

The days went by, and I spent nearly all of them with Léa. However, no matter how many times I perused through Le Petit Journal, there was no news on who had murdered Johann Bergmann. It seemed like the investigation had come to a standstill, and in the meantime, the world had moved on. Some days, it felt like I was the only one who still cared about what had happened to him.

Again and again, my thoughts drifted back to Sylvestre's story. I wanted to believe that he was innocent, but I could never quite be sure. From his claim that he was at the conservatory during the concert to his story about the bicycle, I couldn't seem to prove or disprove anything he had said to me. There simply wasn't enough evidence.

It all hinged on one question: was Sylvestre telling the truth?